


A Dreamer's Lullaby

by ReaOfSunshine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-11-08 04:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17974802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaOfSunshine/pseuds/ReaOfSunshine
Summary: "May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent."Little did Keeper Deshanna realize that she would unknowingly send her apprentice into the clutches of the trickster himself and commence a series of events that would bring forth change for all of the elvhen. All of it would start with a thunderous boom that would shake Thedas to the very core and tear the sky apart. In the center of it, will stand an elven mage who would become the face of a heretical group that would call itself the Inquisition.Thus the story of Inquisitor Somniari Lavellan begins.





	1. Before it All Began

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-telling of the Dragon Age: Inquisition story with my Inquisitor Somniari Lavellan. There may be some canon divergence, but it will follow the canon story events. Thank you and I hope you enjoy! ♥

**Prologue**

 

Somniari begins to pack in the dead of night.

The stars peek shyly from in between the gathering clouds while moonlight drips down from the lush foliage above, showering the forest floor below in an eerie glow. A cool breeze slips lazily through the camp, bringing with it the faint scents of earth, elfroot, and rain. As the impending storm brews, wildlife scurry to their nests in hushed tones as predators rush to catch their meals before the rainfall begins.

Regardless of the sparse amount of light, she is able to deftly dress into some light traveling gear and expertly braid her rebellious hair in record time. After securing her foot wraps, she digs out a well-worn traveling bag from within her  _aravel_ ; the distinct smell of leather hits her with memories that leave a dull throbbing in her heart,  _but she does not have time for that if she is going to leave without anyone noticing_. Stamping down the sensation, she quickly crams her necessities into the bag and quietly listens to the goings-on around her to ensure her escape is hassle-free.

Adjacent to her, Iora's children rustle restlessly in their bed rolls, giggling amongst themselves and through the trees, Geras hums an off-key version of a Dalish ditty as he patrols the camp perimeter. On the opposite side of the fireplace, Panna spends another sleepless night gathering herbs for the clan's tonics and in between a couple  _aravels_ , Seros and Carven are snoring soundly in a seemingly uncomfortable tangle of limbs. Some distance away, she can hear the soft cooing of Keeper Deshanna as she hunts in her shapeshifted form. As for the rest of her clanmates that are scattered among the camp, she can vaguely discern their snores and gentle breathing as they venture into their own land of dreams.

Her trip is not meant to be long-term, but she will miss them all-- _even Iora's children, as irritating as they are._  If she had a choice she would never leave, but unfortunately, Thedas is changing and not for the best. The war between mages and templars has spread like wildfire and it is only a matter of time before the conflict reaches Clan Lavellan's path. They may not be the smallest clan out there nor the weakest, but in a direct attack it will be inevitable for there to be casualties. Even though Keeper Deshanna has not voiced her concern to the others, she has spoken at length with her First, Somniari, and has asked her to be their spy for the upcoming Conclave, where peace talks between the two groups will be held.

Feywen, her father, has not been so readily agreeable, though. In fact, in a fit of anger, he had pulled his sister--the Keeper--and his daughter aside and demanded an explanation for Somniari's sudden journey. Keeper Deshanna did her best to explain that his daughter is the only one who is skilled enough to slip in and out of the Temple of Sacred Ashes unnoticed, but he would not hear it.

_"My daughter is all I have left!"_

The anguish and fear on his weathered face nearly broke Somniari then, but she had to stay strong. Keeper Deshanna would not have tasked her with going if the situation is not dire and as much as she wants to stay for her _babae_ , she is not a child anymore.

Besides, she is the only choice her clan has-- _not that she is bragging, it is the truth._  Panna--the clan's Second and her best friend--has a gift for spirit and nature magic, but is physically weaker due to an illness that has plagued her since birth. Geras is a talented rogue from the Kirkwall alienage, but has very little knowledge when it comes to magic. Seros and Carven are the clan's prized warriors, but again, their grasp on magic is the one thing they lack. For Somniari, her strength in force and shapeshifting magic--not to mention, the small amount of spirit magic she learned from Panna--makes her versatile in and out of combat. In essence, if she happens to run into trouble for  _some unlucky reason_ , she has the ability to get out of it.

With confidence and resolve in her heart, Somniari secures her cloak around her, slips the hood over her head, and grips the well-worn wood of her staff. She turns on her heel--swinging the travel bag over her shoulder--and stops short when she sees a familiar figure before her.

"Stealing away in the middle of the night,  _da'len_?"

The gruff voice she knows so well strikes a dagger through her determination. She falters and feels a wave of emotion wash over her as she whispers in a thick tone, " _Babae_ , I don't wish to fight. For the sake of the clan, we need to know what happens at the Conclave."

In the dim light, she can just make out the pained expression of his face. It is obvious that he  _wants_  to argue and fight to keep her here, but there is also a hint of resignation. He knows it is not a battle he can win.

Comparing the two physically, the contrast could not be any more different. Her skin is fair while his is bronzed, her eyes are gold while his are brown, her hair is stark white while his is jet black and streaked with grey, her features are pronounced while his are angled. As much as they differ in appearance, they are the same in personality--stubborn, blunt, loyal, compassionate, and ultimately,  _understanding_.

"My little dreamer." Feywen steps forward and envelops his daughter in his arms. He is shaking with restrained emotion and she can feel tears prick her eyelids. "I know you're doing what's best for the clan and I couldn't be more proud." Pulling away slightly, he meets her gaze with a degree of severity she had not seen in him before. "Promise me that you'll come back. Then I'll let you go."

"I promise,  _babae_." No hesitation. Drawing into his chest again, Somniari hugs her father once more before she steps back, offering him a small, sad smile. "I'll do everything in my power to come back to you."

Pressing his lips to her forehead, he lets her go. " _Dareth shiral, da'len_." He watches with tears in eyes as she turns to take a running start and disappears into puff of smoke. In her place, a blindingly white barn owl wings into the night just as the downpour begins. Now alone, he murmurs a prayer for his daughter, his worn hands clasped together.

"May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, my little dreamer."

~

The storm follows Somniari for days afterward--a dangerous combination of rain, thunder, and lightning make the already long and arduous trek even more difficult. A lack of sleep and game delays her journey longer than she had anticipated, but despite it all, she makes it to the Frostbacks a day before the Conclave. Exhaustion tugs on her mind and body as she maneuvers her way past the templars that patrol along the perimeter. With sheer will, she finds a secluded area to rest, a safe distance from the temple and any wayward parties.

She climbs skillfully up a hulking tree--heavy with snow--and carefully perches upon one of its thick branches. Once she is sure the branch will hold her weight, she breathes deep, closes her eyes, and strains to listen for movement. Thankfully, she hears nothing but the wind running down the mountainside and the local wildlife going about their day. Satisfied, she slumps with her back against the trunk of the tree--balancing her staff and travel bag on her lap--and hunkers deep into her cloak to shrink away from the cold.

In the distance, the Temple of Sacred Ashes rises towards the sky like a beacon. She has heard stories of it from her father--the storyteller of her clan--and the _shemlen_ her people have traded with, but it is one thing to actually see it in person. The setting sun highlights the grey stonework with bright hues of red, orange, and yellow, making it seem as if it is straight from a painting. It is calming and  _certainly_  a nice change from the storm.

Before she realizes it, the scene and the mountain's gentle snowfall lulls her into sleep's embrace and the world around her disappears into nothingness.

~

It is the same dream again.

The sky above shimmers as if it is on the cusp of sunset, painting the world around her in vivid hues of orange, yellow, and blue. Meanwhile, all around her, winding rocky paths weave themselves in between stone-made platforms that are suspended by an invisible force. There is no wind, but the pockets of trees scattered among the formations sway to their own beat and rhythm. Everything--the sky, the platforms, the trees--are unnaturally bright and colorful, yet saturated with the effects of the Fade. She had seen this scenery dozens of times before--familiar, yet foreign all at once. However, there is a sense of  _wrongness_  that she had not experienced before and a sinister feeling of dread slithers down her spine.

An owl flits by on silent wings, a streak of white against a vibrant background. With a piercing screech, it takes a sharp, precise turn and perches gracefully upon a slim tree branch across from her. Unblinking, golden eyes meet her own and her feet are rooted to the spot as incredulity hits her like a bolt of lightning. She sees herself in those eyes, as if she is staring straight into a mirror.

This had not happened before.  _Something is wrong._

A low, dangerous growling begins a few feet from her left side. Fear prickles her skin and her eyes dart towards the crescendoing sound. A massive beast--nearly as big as her--slinks from the shadows, its fur as black as pitch. Three pairs of aberrant red eyes flick upwards to glance at her, its gaze almost curious in nature. Panic sets her heart racing and her blood rushing in her ears as it sees through her. A beat passes, then it turns to look up at the owl--that is still sitting calmly upon its frail branch--and proceeds forward. The owl's unflinching stare continues to bore holes into her, uncaring of the predator steadily creeping closer and closer.

She needs to call out to it, do  _anything_  to make it move, but when she attempts to speak, she has no words. All she can do is watch helplessly as the creature readies to pounce--that deep, haunting growl growing ever louder.

Instead of seeing it happen, she hears it. A strangled scream struggles from the owl's throat as the wolf snatches it from the branch and grips it by the neck. Ruby red liquid stains the once pristine white feathers and drips from the beast's blackened lips. The more the bird fights against the inevitable, the more bloodied it becomes, squealing in terror. There is no chance of escape and it takes but one quick  _snap_  for its life to be over.

Silence follows--even the wolf's growl had quieted. Seconds tick by and she finds that she can not look away from the wolf's glare, its prey's lifeblood dribbling weakly onto the rocks below. Then the lifeless owl slips, agonizingly slow, from its powerful jaws--jarring the stillness with a muted  _thud_  as it lands unceremoniously in a heap.

And then the wolf is gone, vanished into thin air as if it had never there. It leaves behind one sole piece of evidence: the now deceased owl in a pool of its own blood.

~

Several hours pass by and the night sky descends upon the mountains. Her dreams had not been kind, but that is not the reason she blinks awake--she instead wakes to the sound of snow crunching underfoot. The nightmare she had been battling with clings to her consciousness, but the details are hazy--yet as much as she may want to remember what it was about, the telltale sound of people approaching are more important.

Nimbly, she shifts her bag and staff behind her and crawls forward ever so slightly. Her view of the ground is limited, but from what she can make out in the darkness and from between the branches, it is a large group of armored figures. Judging by their lack of templar armor, they are warriors of another caliber. Breathing solely through her nose, she flattens herself against the branch under her and waits for them to pass by. She concentrates on their footsteps as they head towards the temple, but there was one thing that had caught her attention when she saw them through the branches--a griffin embellishment on the face of one of their shields.

 _Grey Wardens?_  It is not the fact that there are wardens going to the Conclave that is strange--it is well-known they recruit mages and templars into their ranks--but it is the fact that they are traveling in the middle of the night. They would have been welcomed into the temple with no fuss, so  _why_?

Her curiosity piqued, Somniari gathers her belongings and soundlessly shifts into an owl. She takes off on silent wings and begins to follow the wardens' trail, an odd sense of foreboding dropping to her stomach as hovers above--several questions rattle around in her head.

_What are the Grey Wardens planning that they have to march under the cover of darkness? Is it that they do not wish to be seen going to the Conclave itself?_

_Or is there something more nefarious going on?_


	2. The Big Bang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait! I've been dealing with a back injury due to an incident at work, so I've been busy with medical appointments as well as work. I hope the next chapter doesn't take as long, but sadly, I can't make any promises. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this new chapter. ♥

She remembers a griffin and then ... nothing.

_Where--?_

Her breath catches and she rockets upwards. Bile creeps up her throat and the world spins around her--she swiftly lays back down to deter the sickness, a cold sweat breaking out over her brow. The throbbing in her head and the ringing in her ears makes it hard to think, but she attempts to get a grip on her condition the best she can.

Right away, Somniari takes note of the cool metal clapped around her wrists and ankles--chains; is she a prisoner? She turns her hazy gaze to her surroundings and although her senses are dulled and foggy, she can vaguely make out a couple of flickering lights--torches? Breathing in through her nose to investigate further was a mistake; a dank--almost rotten--smell fills her nostrils and she has to once again push down the bile rising in her throat. The moist stonework beneath her helps soothe her flushed skin as she chokes back her sickness, but it also confirms her suspicion--she is a prisoner in a dungeon.

Before she can even ponder on what her crime could be, a gravelly voice--distinctly Fereldan--shouts from the other side of the room she is in. "Oi, the elf's awake! Get Seeker Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale."

_Seeker Pentaghast? Sister Nightingale?_

The names are strange and unfamiliar, but she does recognize one of the titles--Sister; a female and a part of the Chantry, then.

A muted _aye_ answers from a fair distance away, but she can not hear their retreating steps. Her attention is instead drawn to the man in the room with her as he crouches down at her side and meets her gaze. His features are harsh and scarred--a man who has certainly seen battle and has come out damaged for the effort.

"You don't look like much," he mutters, his dark eyes roaming her face. There is hatred in his expression. "Don't know what you remember, but you're our prisoner and have been out of it for days. They think you destroyed the Conclave, but not they're not sure how or why." His brows knit together and his eyes narrow. "You gotta lot to answer for if you did it."

_She is being held as a prisoner ... because they believe she had something to do with the destruction of the Conclave?_

Her mind is reeling and her memories are scattered. The statement rolls around in her head as comprehension slowly starts to take hold. _She is a prisoner._ Her immediate reaction is _why_ , but the answer is simple--she is both a mage and a Dalish elf. Of course she would be a suspect to _shemlen_. Establishing that, she moves to the next part of where _they believe she had something to do with the crime_. Meaning they are _unsure_ and had _not_ caught her in the act of doing of what they are accusing her of. Which, in turn, leads to the last part of the statement: _the destruction of the Conclave_. This takes a lot longer to comprehend as she has no memory of the temple itself--she can recall the moments with her father before she left her clan's camp, the journey to the Frostbacks, and a griffin symbol ... but nothing else. It is as if her memories of the temple had been plucked from her mind and thrown into the abyss, because as hard as she tries to recall them, there is nothing there _to_ remember. If the temple really _is_ gone, however, then that means all of those people attending the Conclave ...

 _Why her? Why did she survive?_ How _did she survive?_

Neither her nor her captors have the answer to these questions, it seems. Frustration at her situation simmers in her chest, but she needs to stay calm, collected. Taking a deep breath through her mouth, she then wipes her features of any emotion and meets the soldier's glare unflinchingly.

"I have nothing to answer for." The words are cold even to her own ears. She sits forward, causing him to rock back on his heels as she hisses dangerously, "The only reason you _shemlen_ think I have anything to do with it is because--"

" _Fenedhis!_ " The pain is so sudden and _excruciating_ that she cries out in pain. What feels like a bolt of lightning shoots up her left arm and for a moment she forgets how to breathe. An angry, sparking energy sizzles from her left palm and lights the dungeon in an eerie green glow. The pain is gone as quickly as it had appeared and she takes a shuddering breath, her chained hands clutched to her chest and her back arched forward. The man had retreated from her during ... _whatever that was_ , but continues to stare at her, his eyes wide with fear.

_What was--?_

The door to the dungeon bangs open and two women adorned in armor stalk into the room. Somniari flinches at the sound and uncurls herself from her fetal position to look up at the newcomers.

The first thing she notices is that the two women are not in matching armor--one is hooded and garbed in rogue-like gear, while the other seems to be fitted in a custom uniform and has the look of a warrior. In the dim torchlight, she can scarcely make out the red hair and icy eyes of the rogue, but has a better time of seeing the warrior's piercing eyes, short, black hair, and the scar that runs the length of her left cheek.

"Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Nightingale." Apparently the soldier had regained his composure because he stands at attention when they enter, saluting them.

Without looking at him, the darker-haired woman snaps, "Leave us." Her thick, foreign accent is unfamiliar to Somniari--possibly northern? However, she does not have a lot of time to debate before the woman's gaze pins her in place. "You." The soldier disappears beyond the threshold and shuts the dungeon door behind him, leaving Somniari with the two women. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. _Except for you_."

Every word is another step forward. The woman is menacing, sure, but Somniari stares her down right back--refusing to submit to intimidation tactics. "I have no memory _of_ the Conclave. I remember my journey here and _that's it_." Her voice is cold--defensive, but immovable. "I'm not the culprit you're looking for."

The rogue speaks then, her tone equally as icy and tinted with an accent. Somniari knows the accent right away--Orlesian; she must be Sister Nightingale. "What is your name and what was your purpose for being at the Conclave?"

At first she is tempted to lie, but then decides that lying could potentially make things worse. Thus, she settles on the truth--or at least enough truth to sate them. She lifts her chin high and replies evenly, "Somniari. I was sent to observe the Conclave, because this conflict doesn't _just_ affect _shemlen_. The verdict that would have come from the talks would have affected my people as well. It's better to have a warning before the war comes to us." Before they can prod her further, she adds with a note of finality, "That being said, what reason could I have to jeopardize my own people when we have already lost so much?"

Sister Nightingale and Seeker Pentaghast exchange glances and something passes wordlessly between them. The warrior then turns her attention back onto Somniari and she asks, "What of the mark on your hand? Do you _truly_ not know where it comes from?"

What ma-- _oh._ Her eyes flit down to her left palm as she takes note of the low thrum of electricity that has been tingling up and down her arm. Due to the episode earlier, she had not been able to get a decent look at the mark itself and now that it was not glowing, it has the appearance of a jagged scar following along her palm's heart line. It is unsettling to see a scar where there had not been one before and she can not shake the strange feeling settling like a pit in her stomach.

"Judging from your reaction, I take that as a _yes_." The rogue's cool voice breaks her out of whatever trance she had been under and forces her to meet the woman's blue-eyed gaze. With a light tilt of her head, Sister Nightingale observes the elven woman in front of her once more. "If what you are saying is true, then perhaps we can work together."

If the situation had been more light-hearted, Somniari would have laughed, but it is not and the woman is deadly serious. She is their prisoner-- _wrongfully accused, may she add_ \--and they want _her_ to _work with them_?

_For what purpose, exactly?_

As she opens her mouth to question, Seeker Pentaghast speaks up, "Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift." Sister Nightingale-- _Leliana_ \--lingers for a few moments more, then takes her leave of the dungeon. Once she is gone, the warrior kneels down in front of Somniari. With one final scrutinizing look, she unlocks the cuffs around her ankles and says gruffly, "Follow me."

_Not that she has a choice._

With a hint of hesitation, she stands shakily--only to notice that her clothes are in tatters, charred and flame-bitten at the ends. Dirt and grime intermingle with a fine film of ash on her clothing and skin. Gashes from an unknown enemy have shredded through the outer layers of her traveling gear, leaving deep gouges in the leather she wears underneath. From what she can see, the white of her hair is nearly black from grit and foreign material is threaded through her disheveled side braid. She can also feel the bruise that has bloomed across the left side of her head as it throbs in annoyance, pockmarking her vision with stars as she gathers herself upright.

In other words, she _looks_ like a prisoner.

Perhaps it is her vanity, but she almost voices her desire to clean up a little. She knows deep down that it is ridiculous, considering her circumstances, but is it so silly to want to be presentable when she is the minority here? A Dalish mage, captured and accused of an unspeakable crime by _shemlen_?

Before she can dwell on it further, Seeker Pentaghast swiftly takes hold of Somniari's upper arm and begins to lead her out.

The molding dungeon door swings open and they step into an even mustier smelling hallway with low hanging lanterns and unmarked crates strewn about the passageway. Stale hay litters the patchy cobblestone floor, but does little to absorb the moisture below their feet. To their right, they pass a gate-locked alcove awash in candlelight and filled with tome-stacked bookcases--a strange sight for being next door to a dungeon. However, the most strange thing is the sounds above them--a combination of what sounds like prayers and hushed voices. They only grow louder as the two near a set of stairs leading up to another--less moldy--wooden door.

A small part of her is thankful for the warrior's steel-like grip as she stumbles up the stairs, her vertigo causing the environment spin. It takes her a moment to find her voice again, but she asks, "What is this 'rift' you spoke of?"

The Seeker stops just before the door, her free hand hovering over the worn wood. Brown eyes shift over to her and she can feel the grip on her arm tighten. "It will be easier to show you."

All of the prayers cease the moment the warrior and the prisoner make their entrance. Eyes of varying shades turn towards Somniari and she can _feel_ their searing accusations on her skin. She hardly takes notice of the Andrastian decor and women in Sisters' clothing as they pick up the pace.

"Take care out there, _knife-ear_."

The guard from the dungeon stands beside the exit, his scarred lips curled in a nasty sneer--if only she were not in chains, she would wipe that smirk off his face. With a brief nod to Seeker Pentaghast, he pivots on his heels and pushes open one of the massive Chantry doors, the hinges squealing as he does so.

The heat of her anger and the breath from her lungs is stolen by the frigid mountain air as it sweeps through the temple. Outside, tents are pitched haphazardly between shabby-looking homes and crumbling stonework while campfires fight valiantly against the raging winds. Soldiers in matching uniforms race back and forth as orders are barked in panicked tones, villagers scurry into their homes or brush past into the safety of the Chantry's embrace, and messengers sprint from station to station with cheeks red and frost-bitten.

Perhaps it is the electric feeling of magic that calls to her, but Somniari's gaze is drawn to the horizon, despite the chaos in front of her. And _nothing_ could have prepared her for the sight.

The sky is torn, ripped open, bleeding out an arc of green energy that seemingly strikes the earth below it like a bolt of lightning. Angry, grey clouds swirl viciously around the gaping wound and spark with charges of electricity, but they do little to cover the aggressive, jagged tear in the atmosphere. From the center, individual green energies hurtle towards the ground below like meteors, their pattern appearing random yet determined.

All at once, Somniari feels that creeping sickness again and she pitches violently to the side, emptying the sparse contents of her stomach. She continues to heave even when there is nothing left and it is then she realizes why she had felt so _wrong_. As a Dreamer, she is more sensitive to the presence of demons, but in the past, she had never had such a strong reaction such as this. The usual tug in her gut has shifted more into a harsh and dizzying vertigo, feeling as if her insides wanted to crawl to the outside. And as if that is not enough, the thrumming of the mark on her left hand increases, sending shockwaves up and down her arm. She ignores it the best she can and wipes away the spittle on her lips with her sleeve.

Gathering what little pride she has left, she clears her throat and glances up at Seeker Pentaghast--whom had remained unfazed. "I assume _that_ is what you think I caused?" Jerking her chin, Somniari motions to the hole in the sky. "Do you think I could create a tear in the Veil that big? No lone mage has that kind of power."

"You're correct. The apostate taking care of you--Solas--said the very same." The woman's demeanor seems to shift, but her expression stays the same. "We call it 'The Breach'. It's growing larger every passing hour and it's not the only rift, just the largest. And all of this--the Breach, the rifts--were all caused by the explosion at the Conclave." To emphasize her next point, she releases her hold on Somniari's arm and instead grasps the elf's left hand. "Unless we act, the Breach will continue to expand and your mark will spread until it kills you. We believe it's the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time."

Somniari's head is throbbing and her stomach is rolling--all she wants to do is go back home to her clan. But if what the Seeker says is true, then even _they_ are in danger.

_What kind of First would she be if she ran home with her tail between her legs?_

"Fine. This seems to be the only way to prove my innocence." She sighs, then looks down at the shackles on her wrists--she has to be careful on how she words her next request. "Although, I can't be expected to be much help with my hands bound and without a weapon. I trust in your ability, but there may be moments when you can't protect me and yourself."

Seeker Pentaghast opens her mouth as if she is about to argue, but stops, takes a deep breath and nods. "Once again, you're right." She motions to the scarred guard lingering at the Chantry door and orders, "Bring the prisoner her staff."

_Her staff? Her staff survived the explosion?_

The man hesitates, his eyes darting between the prisoner and the Seeker before he salutes and mumbles, "Right away." He disappears for a few moments, then reappears with a familiar-looking staff--the green crystal at the top glowing faintly in response to Somniari's presence.

 _Thank the Creators for_ one _small miracle._

In one fluid motion, Seeker Pentaghast relinquishes the shackles' hold and lets them drop to the ground below. The Seeker's eyes are wary as the elf rubs absently at her wrists, willing the circulation to return before she snatches her weapon back from the disgruntled man. With a hiss, the guard returns back to his post, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Somniari rolls her shoulders and shuts her eyes, concentration pulling at her brows. After a couple seconds, her golden eyes shoot open and some measure of color has returned to her cheeks--a simple healing spell to stave off her symptoms. She cocks her head towards the Breach and says confidently, "Right. Shall we go?"

The Seeker scoffs and once more grabs the elf's arm. "Don't make me regret letting you out of the dungeon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to elaborate more on Somniari's abilities later on, don't worry! It's actually a big spoiler so I don't want to give away too much. ;)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! See you in the next chapter. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> As a quick note, you can also find me on Tumblr as fragmented-eluvian for story updates and other Dragon Age content. ♥


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